


Go on, Yankee, break my heart

by Strudelmugel



Series: Peace and Love [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M, Sad Ending, Tragic Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 10:59:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12839742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strudelmugel/pseuds/Strudelmugel
Summary: Orad writes letters he cannot send on a beach he wishes was less lonely.





	Go on, Yankee, break my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Michael – Molossia
> 
> Orad/Oscar – Hutt River
> 
> Apari – Australia
> 
> Manya - Wy
> 
> …
> 
> Whoop, second in my sad Hetalia fics based on Pogues songs series! This one is based on Sayonara.
> 
> Given that I’ve always written him in the third person, I’ve never truly unlocked the full extent of Hutt’s narrative voice and let me just say: it is the most needlessly flowery, pretentious voice ever. Like damn, calm down and stop trying to be a poet.
> 
> Again, very sad so sorry.

 

[OK, it's time for Sayonara](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3bw1pdW5fU)

[Go on](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3bw1pdW5fU) [ yankee break my heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3bw1pdW5fU)

 

* * *

 

 

Dearest Michael,

You were different from the other Americans.

What I mean is, you looked different anyway. I expected the whole bloody lot of you to be blond and tanned and tall and built like Greek statues, uniforms fitting perfectly and just adding to how stupidly handsome you all were.

Like your brother, I suppose. He was all bright smiles and flashing blue eyes but something about you intrigued me.

I mean, you had the tan at least. But it was not the sun-kissed gold of your brother, rather baked red, a farmer’s tan, a mark of hard work and honesty. You were a man of the earth with a love for the land and I just knew it the moment I saw you.

Your hair was the furthest thing from blond, but, now that I recall, it was styled like a typical flashy American soldier, but you weren’t swaggering about the place, plying girls with chocolate and stockings and cigarettes.

I could see the appeal though. Even though you were slouched against a wall, watching your brother laugh and chatter with anyone who would give him a second of attention, you still fascinated me. Yes, let us use the term “fascinated” for the moment.

I could see what the locals meant about your uniforms.

I remember the sunglasses too; oh how could I not? You were the first American I saw with a pair that did not look, hmm, how should I describe it? Obnoxious? Then again, we all thought you lot were obnoxious.

It went well with your scarf. The red one. The red silk scarf tucked into your jacket. It screamed trouble to me. Well, not my trouble but your own, like you were off to jump in front of a bull. People have told me the colour red means a lot of things besides earth: love, passion, fertility, danger. Mostly danger. I worried for you, though I did not even know your name.

You would soon be off to war, after all.

You did not exactly look in the mood to talk to anyone, so I did not approach. I never approached people though.

But still, you saw me.

I never asked what you thought when you first looked at me, whether you were instantly captivated or angered that someone had disturbed your reverie or curious if I would say something. I should have asked. I will ask the moment you get home.

There are a lot of things I wish to ask you when you get home. Our time together was so short… so here’s to figuring something out when the war is over.

All the hugs and kisses,

Orad

 

* * *

 

 

Darling Michael,

I do not know why I write to you like I would write in a diary, but I suppose this is the closest I will come to actually talking to you until the war is over. Maybe then you can read these and laugh at my silly worries that you may not return. Maybe then I can hear your replies to my questions, and tell me all you are currently seeing in Asia.

Where are you now? Singapore? Burma? I am in the dark about most that is going on. But we are winning, right? I think that is true, that the Yanks and Aussies are pushing back against Japan? They won’t let me in any of the shops to buy a newspaper, and people are secretive about this sort of thing, lest a German is somewhere listening.

No Germans here, just me. Wanting to know how you are.

I hope you are keeping safe.

Hopes and wishes for the future,

Orad

 

* * *

 

 

Michael, my love,

I remember the first time you talked to me.

It was at the beach, evening time and I remember the sun painting the sky the colours of life, of nature. I remember letting the sand fall through my fingers as I watched you talk with the other Yankee soldiers and, to this day, I wish I could convince you I was there by accident. The beach is my special place, where I go to feel free and safe. Sometimes when the world is too much to bear, I go for a swim and let the cool water cleanse my face and body.

In all honesty, I was trying to make myself invisible in your presence, sitting quietly and not making a sound, but you still saw me, again. I was probably creeping you out at that point.

When the other soldiers went to the bar, you stayed behind and I wanted to flee. You were coming my way! There was, quite suddenly, no time to run.

But you just said hello, gave an awkward wave, and stood there.

The wind seemed to be attacking your coat more successfully than your hair and the sun dying at the other side of the city made you look like a fire. You smiled a goofy smile and the dimples in your cheeks made me smile back. I introduced myself as Oscar, and you told me your name was Michael.

You were alright, for a Yank.

We talked until we could no longer see, about our lives and the war we both knew little about. You told me about the USA, and I talked about my home on the edge of the city, a brother and sister, my birthplace out west that I had not seen in years. I told you my brother was off fighting and I had to stay here to look after my sister because something horrible would happen if I wasn’t around to protect her.

You told me it was your brother Alfred who was enlisted, and you volunteered to be with him, and do your bit. I remember that, Michael, how desperate you were to help, to save everyone. A man of morals, truly, and I still admire you for that. You mentioned another brother, one you only knew was alive because he was in a POW camp somewhere in Germany. I hope he will be returned to you one day.

The sun kept dipping and dipping, but you did not care. All that mattered was talking to me like we were a pair of regular boys, discussing our hopes for the future and worries. You saw me as an equal and I appreciate that. No one else here did, not the Aussies or Americans or anyone except my siblings.

Of course, there was nothing regular about your fear of death, of the real war. Everything was still a dream-like trance for you. A crappy holiday but not yet the hell your veteran father warned you about. That would soon come.

You disappeared for a while at some point, leaving me to my exhilarated thoughts and returning with a bottle of scotch.

We walked as far as we could as we drank, singing and paddling in the sea. For the life of me, I cannot remember what we sang, if we tried to teach each other the words, if we danced. No, there _was_ dancing, I’m sure of it. When I fell in and got my hair wet, you dried it with your scarf.

I remember _that_ well. It settled around my shoulders; you didn’t seem in any hurry to take it back. That scarf smelt of your cologne and I pressed it to my nose; I apologised for getting my salt and sand stink on it.

You… did not mind at all. Quite the opposite as you wrapped that thing around the two of us and kissed me. We were completely alone, but you still pulled away too soon. Your face… yes I understood the fear, but you did not need to fear me.

To prove it, I kissed you back.

I… am not the best kisser. I want to be the best at everything but, alas, I was terrible. So were you, I have to admit. It was something we could both laugh at, in between little pecks to noses and cheeks.

Then I wrapped your scarf back around your neck and told you to get going, that you’d be missed and we couldn’t have that now.

But, of course, if you ever needed to find me, you’ll find me on this beach.

I’m still here today; the moment you come home, you’ll know where to look.

Kisses to your nose,

Orad xx

 

* * *

 

 

My beloved Michael,

As strange a place as it was to meet in secret, the beach became our little, safe world. That is, when we met outside the city, behind this rock outcropping where we could kiss in private, and maybe more.

Everyone said you Americans were overpaid, oversexed and over here. I can confirm at least two of those are true.

No, wait, you’re no longer over here. You’re over there. In Burma, that is what a soldier who knew you told me. His legs were missing and so were his eyes. I begged that would not be you.

Since you left, the worry has not left my body, but it was dull, a far away but painful truth I did not want to admit to myself. And now?

There was a chance you were not coming back at all. And what state would you be in when you came back? Not that I would care about you any less, no matter how gnarled and scarred you became, not even if half your body was missing.

I just don’t wish such a fate on you.

And Apari too! Is it too much to hope you are both returned to me safe? And your brothers too. I just want us all to be fine, and together when the war is over. I want both my brother and sister by my side again, and you in my arms.

I could take on everyone responsible for this war right here right now!

I did want to sign up, and I told you as such. Apari told me not to. I needed to stay with Manya and I was a kiddo who couldn’t go throwing my life away for no reason.

But Apari can, apparently.

I hope he comes back safe.

If I didn’t worry about my sister so much, I would volunteer anyway, maybe fight with you and know just what was going on and if you were still alive. There isn’t even a way of knowing if you have been injured or captured because who is going to tell me? We made sure no one knew of our relationship for a reason, and I can hardly walk into the barracks and ask.

I have convinced myself you are safe, and that is enough for now.

Lots of wishes,

Orad xx

 

* * *

 

 

My life and light,

It was strange, but I had never felt as safe as when we were swimming together, in our own private lagoon. I pulled you underwater and kissed you, knowing we would be disturbed by no one in our liquid crystal.

You looked ghostly as the moon filtered through the water, like the very sand you skidded across as you let the tides – and my hands – guide you.

When we came up for air, you laughed and I couldn’t help joining in, dear. You remember, right? Your laugh is the best sound in the world, you know that, right?

Hugs and kisses and walks on the beach,

Orad xxxx

 

* * *

 

Beloved, darling Michael,

I hope our last night together is as deeply carved into your memory is it is into mine.

Oh, how could it not be? The moon was full and illuminating the sea and sand in a silvery shimmer. Everything was warm and calm as we lay together on the beach.

You laughed as we danced, jacket abandoned and your shirt soon following. You pulled off my shirt between kisses and - gently - pushed me down onto the sand.

You held my face in your hands as you cradled my soul in yours, our bodies intertwined and as loss was already building up in my heart; I did something I’d been meaning to for a while.

I told you my real name.

I wanted you to call me Orad.

And that was what you called me for the rest of the night. For once, I did not even care how your accent made it sound so ridiculous, or that my name was too foreign. I wanted you to tell me you loved me for the rest of our time together and speak words of truth.

My ears and neck burn from the ghost of your voice, memories of trailing fingers up and down my skin. I ruined your hair with my wayward hands, but you didn’t care. Mine was soon coated in powdered gold.

I pressed a hand to your chest to feel your heartbeat and wrapped that scarf around the both of us, fire all around us. Fire in me. Fire on your lips. My heart.

Your heart was my own swing band, playing furiously, like the world was ending the moment the sun rose. And it was, for us.

My mouth had a hunger only you could satisfy, and my heart had an ache that would not leave, no matter how I pressed your body against mine. I wanted that night to last forever, to feel your warmth until the sky fell around us and the earth reclaimed our bodies, but all too soon we had to kiss for the last time as sunlight tore our world apart.

I want to remember everything and hope you don’t mind. If this is too embarrassing to read, I understand. I will be right here ready to make new memories.

My hand in yours forever,

Orad xx

 

* * *

 

Faithful Michael,

~~You~~

~~You’re~~

I saw your brother today.

They carried the maimed off a truck that looked like a shrivelled olive and he was there, standing off away from the crowd as the legless and limping and broken were taken to the hospital and barracks, hidden away from the horrified, silent stares of the locals. He refused all help, and refused to go inside with the others. Most of him stood on the pavement, hunched and colourless.

His left arm is still in Burma.

I had to have some news, and besides, in caring about you I grew to care for him too, and we had spoken once or twice before, when he came to collect you. I did tend to steal you away from your countrymen.

Alfred seemed willing to talk to me now, and I lead him away from everyone staring, down to our beach.

I held out as long as I could, and so did he. Alfred talked of the war and losing his arm and watching his friends get gunned down, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak of you until I asked.

And so, with my eyes on the sea and ears in hell, I learnt of your fate.

You.

Michael.

Oh, my Michael. One piece of lead.

You’ve been dead for months.

Yours, devastated,

Orad


End file.
